


Ghosts Of Our Own

by Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Angst, Can be read multiple ways, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Possible Incest, Implied Torture, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers/pseuds/Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lines blur between pain and pleasure, as Chuck is left in his delusions of what is real and what is not. He believes he's been kidnapped and tortured, but then again, he thought his Dad was dead until he showed up to rescue him. Feeling has never been a Bass family trait, but he can only escape it for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts Of Our Own

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of Gossip Girl.  
>  **Spoilers:** For season two. It takes place after Bart dies and Chuck is left to deal with his unresolved feelings about the man.  
>  **Warning:** You can read this with implied incest, or you can read it without. There's enough angst already, but I've left a few hints.  
>  **Author's Note:** I very rarely write things for lighter shows/films such as Gossip Girl, but this plotline in S2 has always been one of my favorites, particularly for Chuck as a character, and because of its darker tones.

Chuck is cold; he's dizzy and disoriented and fuck, what is that sticking out of his leg? He blinks rapidly, and realizes he's straining against chains that pin his hands behind him. He's sitting in a chair, that's obvious. He can feel the hard, cold metal under his skin... his bare skin. He's naked. He's naked and tied to a chair. It's laughable, really, that Chuck Bass is tied up--nothing he hasn't had done before. He snorts and spits out blood, and then he quits laughing. The blood drips off his chin and runs down his chest, grimy and cold and chillingly slow. He blinks again, starting to see things more clearly, though there isn't much around. A weak, dimmed light is slipping through some crack above and he can just faintly make out the outlines of boxes. Boxes are piled around him everywhere and he's clearly in some sort of storage room. He thinks and tries to remember and all he comes up with is too much booze and someone else's limo. And his father. His father is dead. And Chuck Bass is an orphan.

Now that he can partially see, he tries to look more clearly at his leg. Goddamn it. It's bone. Yes, that's definitely bone sticking out his leg, and with every discovery, he learns something more. He feels something more. His legs are sticky with blood, probably his own. More than probably. There's dirt on him. It makes him fidget a little, and he cries out in pain. He starts to feel the bruises, as black and as immeasurable as the room he's in. Fresh and swollen, they smell. He smells. It smells. Dampness on his toes, is something dripping? 

He feels each individual wound, every hurt, on their own, and then all at once. It's everywhere, the pain. The pain consumes him and he doesn't know how to get out, so instead he goes in. Deep inside, as deep as he can go. But he can never escape the pain, not wholly.

"Chuck?" he hears his father calling. He shakes himself and he's standing in his penthouse apartment, the one he hides out in. There's his father, face as barren of compassion as smooth stone, his expression fixed in something that just looks unimpressed. Chuck smiles hesitantly because he remembers it's his birthday. The Bass men have never been overly emotive, but there's always some grunt of celebratory recollection. And he waits for it, yes, his Dad will spew out a few mandatory slights about his behavior, his grades, his partying, and then he'll finish with something that ignores those missteps for at least that day. He understands it's hard for him. His mother died giving birth to him and Bart Bass lost a wife, and he gained son, and he forgot how to tell the difference between the two. 

"Yes, father?" Chuck purrs with mock innocence. He's ready for the minor hits to the wrist, so long as he gets the affirmation he needs. He's always enjoyed being slapped around a little. In fact, he would prefer his punishments dished out in spankings instead of words, something more alive and tangible. But Bart generally prefers touching his son as little as possible, whether for punishment or reward.

"I'm going out of town for two weeks. I wanted to tell you in person, but I'm on my way to the airport, so I'm afraid I don't have time to talk," Bart says, and the conversation feels over before it ever got to start. Chuck accepts this, still expecting some voiced afterthought as his Dad heads to the door about how a sum of money has been added to his accounts, or a park has been bought in his name or at least there's a present on the table from his father's assistant, signed with Bart's name. Instead that's it, and his father leaves and Chuck blows out the candles on a cake that was never so much as a consideration. 

He trades one suffering for another and his eyes open, and he's still in his chair. He suspects some drugs are working their way out of him, and that's why he feels more awake and why the searing pain in his leg has become louder and more demanding, and why he shivers with the bitter sting of the air. Which is worse, he doesn't know: the reality in which his father is dead, or the memory in which he lives like a animated carcass plucked from an open casket, beautiful and lean and colored on the outside, with a heart that doesn't beat?

He loses some time, going back and forth between the two, and then he hears something. It's footsteps. Maybe someone has paid the ransom--Blair, or Lily, or Jack--and he's about to be set free? Maybe there was never a ransom and he's already dead, or getting there way too slow. A door opens and he makes a sound at the harsh light on his face. He can't help but take stock of himself, and seeing everything is nearly as bad as feeling it. Appearances and truth, always fighting for the win.

"Chuck?" he hears his father's voice. No, no, that can't be right? Is this the dream, the fantasy? The towering figure that steps in front of him, decorated in a tailored suit, a costume that never comes off is, well, yes, it's his father. He'd recognize that deep, unheard voice, that angular face and that cigar smell anywhere, any time. He tries to speak but instead he just whimpers and feels useless and embarrassed. His Dad shouldn't see him this way. He forgets to be practical and acknowledge that any Dad wouldn't care as long as his child his safe, but that's because he remembers his father only speaks of setbacks, errors and most of all, failure. Somehow this is his fault. It has to be. It is. It is.

Then there's a hand on his face, rough, but still a comfort. His Dad leans down and Chuck's eyes widen; he's never seen his father lower himself for anyone before. "Son, it's all over. I've taken care of it. It's time to go home." Is it all over? Is this death, and his Father has come to take him away? The world must be down two Basses, and surely it's better for it? When his father frees his hands and lifts him, he knows what's coming. The torrid flames of Hell, surely built as part of his father's empire, a sea off the New York City skyline. 

Instead he intakes the smell of smoked tobacco, and the feel of the suit, and the warmth of someone who appears human after all, if only in illusion. He lets the drowsiness take him, and for a while he rests in it, safe and sound with not a dream to dream. He wakes quicker than he'd like, and he sees his father's blue eyes starring down at him. He's laying in a bed. He's covered by a blanket, and while he can still smell and feel the dirt and blood, he knows his leg has been doctored and everything might be okay. "But you're... d-dead."

"I lied." A simple response with no embellishment. He watches through half-lidded eyes as his father undresses down to a plain white t-shirt and black boxer-shorts. And socks. Firm hands propel him out of bed and help him stumble to the bathtub, where he's seated for the moment. Warm water splashes down on his toes and the tub begins to fill. The heat both hurts and heals, and he knows that it is part of life--the back and forth, the giving and taking of happiness to reach a balance necessary for being. With one hand, he scrubs himself with a cloth; the other arm is held tightly by his father. He knows what he's doing. He's stopping him from drowning, and not even commenting on the splashing as Chuck struggles a little.

In all the years he's lived, he's felt weighed down by the daggers in every word his father has said, each resting like chains on his back that push him deeper. Now the chains are gone, and he'd been carried out of it, held up from sinking. His arm gets tired quickly and he is only half-conscious as he's dried off and sent back to bed. He expects to lie their alone but the bed moves under his father's body and suddenly there's warmth at his back, deflecting most of his doubt, uncertainty and fear. It's comfort he's never had, and always wanted. An arm is around him, calm breathing for him to mirror, silence that isn't so bad anymore. And then his Dad speaks, and he knows this is not real. "I love you, Chuck."

He opens his eyes. And he's awake. And Chuck Bass is an orphan. But he's not trapped in some dank room, he's in his bedroom, though it's just as empty. He longs for a different day, when he'd happily go through all of the pain and humiliation for the revelation of his father's humanity. He dreams of forgiveness and second chances and warm embraces but only some words are said and only certain bruises heal.


End file.
